“Everything,” declared Andy in the tone of a paid instructor, “has its proper time and place, boys; I've told you that before. For instance, I wouldn't try to kill a skunk by talking it to death; and I wouldn't be hopeful of putting the run on this Dunk person by telling him ghost stories. As to ideas--I'm plumb full of them. But they're all about grub, just right at present.” That started Slim and Happy Jack to complaining because no one had had sense enough to go back after some lunch before taking that long trail south; the longer because it was a slow one, with sheep to set the pace. And by the time they had presented their arguments against the Happy Family's having enough brains to last them overnight, and the Happy Family had indignantly pointed out just where the mental deficiency was most noticeable, they were upon that last, broad stretch of “bench” land beyond which lay Flying U coulee and Patsy and dinner; a belated dinner, to be sure, but for that the more welcome. And when they reached the point where they could look away to the very rim of the coulee, they saw sheep--sheep to the skyline, feeding scattered and at ease, making the prairie look, in the distance, as if it were covered with a thin growth of gray sage-brush. Four herders moved slowly upon the outskirts, and the dogs were little, scurrying, black dots which stopped occasionally to wait thankfully until the master-minds again urged them to endeavor. The Happy Family drew up and stared in silence. “Do I see sheep?” Pink inquired plaintively at last. “Tell me, somebody.” “It's that bunch you fellows tackled last night,” said Weary miserably. “I ought to have had sense enough to leave somebody on the ranch to look out for this.” “They've got their nerve,” stated Irish, “after the deal they got last night. I'd have bet good money that you couldn't drag them herders across Flying U coulee with a log chain.” “Say, by golly, do we have to drive this here bunch anywheres before we git anything to eat?” Slim wanted to know distressfully. Weary considered briefly. “No, I guess we'll pass 'em up for the present. An hour or so won't make much difference in the long run, and our horses are about all in, right now--” “So'm I, by cripes!” Big Medicine attested, grinning mirthlessly. “This here sheep business is plumb wearin' on a man. 'Specially,” he added with a fretful note, “when you've got to handle 'em gentle. The things I'd like to do to them Dots is all ruled outa the game, seems like. Honest to grandma, a little gore would look better to me right now than a Dutch picnic before the foam's all blowed off the refreshments. Lemme kill off jest one herder, Weary?” he pleaded. “The one that took a shot at me las' night. Purty, please!” “If you killed one,” Weary told him glumly, “you might as well make a clean sweep and take in the whole bunch.”